The sages stepped into the grand meeting room, their radiant presence filling every corner with warmth and serenity. Knights and students seated in the hall lifted their eyes, awe reflected on their faces, before bowing deeply. A hushed reverence settled in the chamber, as if even the air itself was holding its breath.
Golden light from enchanted lanterns flickered against high stone walls, catching the edges of ancient banners that told of victories long past. The sages' tranquil aura wrapped the gathering in comfort—until it suddenly broke.
Without warning, the radiance shattered. The light dimmed, shadows stretched unnaturally, and the sages' figures wavered as if melting away. Gasps echoed through the hall as their forms dissolved into darkness. The warmth was gone, replaced by an icy chill that gnawed at the bones.
From the void emerged three thrones, carved not of wood or stone, but of writhing black smoke. Seated upon them were three figures draped in shadow, their faces obscured by shifting veils of mist.
The first leaned forward, his eyes glinting like knives. "This illusion will not last forever," he said coldly. "Soon, the knights and students will doubt. They will ask questions—was it ever truly the sages who guided them? Did the sages ever solve their problems at all?"
The second, his body flickering as if caught between dimensions, spoke with a hollow resonance. "Then we must strengthen the illusion. The Book of Moon Knowledge is the key. Its power has no equal, and we will wield it again."
The third raised his head, his voice deep and endless, echoing like a chasm between worlds. "But the Moon Book hungers. To bend it further, we require more power. And when we uncover the Sun Book to pair with it… no one will ever doubt us. We will be reality."
A slow, wicked smile cut across his shadowed face.
"We are Phantasos. Phobetor. Morpheus. The day we slew the sages was the day we began to reshape this world."
The chamber fell into silence, suffocating and heavy, as the shadows curled tighter around their thrones.
---
A Memory of the Woods
Rain hammered the earth in a relentless storm. Lightning cleaved the sky into shards of white, and thunder roared over the forest.
Through the downpour, a lone rider charged forward. His cloak clung to his drenched frame, and desperation burned in his eyes. His horse's hooves splashed through mud until they reached the towering gates of the sages' fortress.
He stumbled from the saddle, collapsed at the threshold, and dragged himself inside.
"Please… sages!" His voice cracked as he fell to his knees, soaked and trembling. "My village is dying! Strange flowers have spread across the land—they turn our people's skin to wood. They're fading fast. Only you can save them!"
Knights exchanged uneasy glances. The sages, seated at the far end of the hall, grew grave.
The youngest sage rose, faint light still clinging to him even amidst the storm's gloom. "We will go," he declared firmly.
One of the elders frowned, his tone weighted with caution. "Our powers are not yet restored from the ceremony. If we leave now—"
"Please!" The rider's plea cut through the chamber like a blade. Rain mixed with his tears as he pressed his forehead to the ground. "If you don't come, my people will die."
The youngest sage placed a gentle hand on the man's shoulder. "We will save them," he said, resolute.
That very night, the sages and their knights mounted their steeds and rode into the storm. The wind howled like a beast, tearing at their cloaks, and the rain stung like arrows.
Hours passed before they reached the village. But no laughter, no voices, no life awaited them.
Only silence.
The settlement lay in ruin. Huts sagged under the weight of the storm, their frames broken and skeletal. Doors creaked eerily, swinging wide to reveal emptiness. Fields that had once flourished now lay drowned in twisted, blackened growths that swayed as though alive.
A knight wrinkled his nose. "This… this isn't sickness. It's death."
The rider, who had led them here, stopped. Slowly, his trembling shoulders stilled. Then—he turned. A cruel smile stretched across his face. Malice gleamed in his eyes.
"Welcome to hell, sages."
The youngest sage narrowed his eyes. His voice was low, steady. "You lied to us. There was never an illness."
Another sage's tone was grim, his words cutting through the storm. "This was a trap. The storm weakens our magic—and we are still recovering from the ceremony."
The man's laughter cracked like thunder. "Fools! I don't need tricks. I have this!"
From beneath his cloak, he drew forth a silver-bound tome. Its cover pulsed with dark, otherworldly light, as though breathing.
The sages' eyes widened. "The… Moon Book…" one whispered.
The youngest sage's fists clenched. "Without the Sun Book, its illusions cannot be broken."
Lightning lit the man's face, contorted in triumph. His voice rose above the rain, filled with cruel certainty.
"You should have stayed in your fortress. For now, Phantasos, Phobetor, and Morpheus will reshape this world—and soon, no one will even remember your names!"
The knights drew their blades, steel gleaming in the storm's fury. Thunder roared above, the earth quaked below, and the night itself seemed to hold its breath.
The battle for reality had begun.
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